


wedding bell blues

by margosfairyeye (Skittery)



Series: Michael Guerin Week 2020 [4]
Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Lost Decade (Roswell New Mexico), Michael Guerin Week 2020, Michael's low opinion of himself, Pod Squad (Roswell), Weddings, background Isobel Evans/Noah Bracken - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:06:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26571124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skittery/pseuds/margosfairyeye
Summary: Set during the lost decade.  Isobel's getting married and Michael is trying his best to be happy for her.-- --Fic prompt: The Lost Decade/ “We are a family.”Day 4 of Michael Guerin Week 2020
Relationships: Isabel Evans & Max Evans & Michael Guerin
Series: Michael Guerin Week 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1928218
Comments: 5
Kudos: 32





	wedding bell blues

**Author's Note:**

> Fic prompt: The Lost Decade/ “We are a family.”
> 
> \-- -- 
> 
> cw: alcohol

Michael was wearing a tie. And yes, contrary to Isobel’s prediction, he both hated it and felt stupid. He wasn’t even sure why he’d been forced into this ridiculous suit, since he wasn’t part of the wedding party, and it’s not like a tie would convince anyone that he was someone else for this one Saturday. 

Not only was he wearing a tie, but he wasn’t even late, he was actually early. Not that it mattered, since everyone who might have cared about whether and when Michael got there was off in some dressing room. Michael wasn’t upset that he wasn’t part of the wedding; he barely knew Noah and spending a lot of time with Max wouldn’t have been good for either of them, and besides, he wasn’t really cut out for responsibilities like that. He was fine just being there as a normal guest, supporting Isobel and hopefully drinking his weight in free alcohol. 

He slid into an empty pew on the bride’s side of the chapel, placing his hat on the pew next to him, and taking a surreptitious drink from the flask of mixed whiskey and acetone. He tugged ineffectively at his collar held too tightly by his tie, looking over the program he’d been handed at the door. It was white, with a tasteful border of flowers and gold foil print. The pews had been decorated with white ribbons and flowers, and there was a string quartet getting set up near the dais. Michael hated everything about it.

Well, he liked the part where Isobel got to be happy. He pretty much had to, considering he’d sacrificed any possibility of his own happiness to ensure Isobel’s. Being here at her wedding was just like collecting on a promise, seeing it through. 

Michael watched people filter into the chapel, shifting restlessly when his ass started to protest the hard wooden seat and absently folding his program into complicated shapes. At least he had his flask—the ceremony would have been impossible without it. He watched Mrs. Evans and some older people who had to be her parents come in, heads held high, followed by what Michael assumed were Noah’s family, people he’d never met before. They all sat in the front two rows, peeling back ribbons reserving those seats. Michael’s seat hadn’t been saved—he was in the back pews with the other plebs.

He’d stayed close to the aisle, both in case he needed a quick getaway and because he wanted to make sure Isobel knew he was there, that he would never have skipped this. Michael hadn’t been to a wedding before, but it was a lot like sitting through Sunday church services, a memory he had to consciously push aside, trying to ignore the taste of bile in his mouth. 

Isobel was the only thing that made it all okay. She looked gorgeous, little pearls in her hair and a form-fitting dress with a long train, made of chiffon or silk or one of those other fabrics that fancy dresses were made out of. And she was glowing, walking with Mr. Evans down the aisle looking like the very picture of a blushing bride, the version that lived in bridal magazines and Better Homes and Gardens. She grinned through the lace of her veil when she passed Michael, and he grinned back, giving her a subtle thumbs up. 

Michael thought that if he ever got married, he wouldn’t want a fuss like this. He wouldn’t want the falseness of religion, or the uncomfortable clothing, or the hard pews. He would want to just be wearing his normal clothes, maybe a nicer shirt than usual; and he’d want it to be quiet—a quiet exchange of vows; and he’d want it to be outside, at night, so they could see the stars. He could almost picture it…except there was no fucking point, was there? Michael wasn’t “marriage material,” everyone said that, thinking he couldn’t hear, and the only person he’d ever thought about promising his time and love to was long gone. 

The rest of the chapel sat down as Isobel reached the altar, taking Noah’s hand, and Michael threw himself back to the mercy of the pew, hoping the ceremony would be short, at least. 

It was short enough, although in Michael’s opinion, it could have been shorter. He didn’t pay that much attention, either, especially not to the droning clergyman. He did watch when Isobel said her vows, when she held out her finger for a ring, when they kissed. She looked happy, and that was important, and Michael was happy for her. He didn’t openly weep, like the woman sitting in the pew next to him, but he felt his heart swell for her.

He was more than ready for it when the ceremony ended, and he could stand up from the terrible pew and put his hat back on and get out of the stuffy chapel air into the heat of the day. Isobel’s reception was at a place just a short drive away—an old barn building transformed into a brick and treated-wood hipster-paradise, adorned with white ribbon and twinkling fairy lights and more flowers than had any right to be in the middle of the desert. There was a patio area set up outside, too, with benches that looked off into the west, primed for photos of the sunset. It was a little too well-manicured for Michael’s taste, not real enough to hold onto, even the beams across the ceiling were intentionally chipped, and not structural. 

Michael looked over the table seating cards quickly—he knew he wasn’t sitting with Max and the rest of the party, and Isobel and Noah had their own table, which put him at the odd man out table—the one that was all singles, people who were friends but not enough to land anywhere else. It was fine, it was the right place for him to be seated, but Michael wished it had been different—wished he’d been able to be part of the family, to sit with them, to be part of Isobel’s joy, instead of watching it from across a huge room. 

The saving grace of it all was the free bar. Michael waited until Isobel and Noah had come in, until he’d clapped and raised a glass to her where she could see him; and then he settled himself near the bar, sipping bourbon from a fancy glass and leaning against the wall, watching people filter in, watching hors d’oeuvres circle the room, and trying not to show how out of place he felt. 

“You look like you’re having fun,” the bartender said, after Michael came back for his fourth straight bourbon. He was tall, with dark hair and eyes, a shirt that was at least one button too low, and a confident air that Michael liked, plus he poured Michael a little more every time. “Date drag you here?”

Michael smiled, looking the bartender up and down—if he could manage to get laid, that would counteract some of the pain points of the day. He scanned for a name tag. “Nope…Nick. I’m a good friend of the bride.”

Nick nodded, distractedly moving onto his next drink order, without taking his eyes off Michael. “Why aren’t you up there with the rest of them?” Michael followed the bartender’s nod towards the front of the room, where Isobel and Noah were standing in a circle of well-meaning wish-givers and family members. 

“View’s better from back here,” he said, smirking and taking another sip of his drink. 

“Oh yeah?” Nick asked, smoldering back at Michael as he ran his fingers none too discreetly around the neck of a bottle. Yeah, this was a good plan. 

“Absolutely.” Michael noticed people sitting down at their tables, and as content as he was picturing Nick the bartender with his pants around his ankles, he figured he shouldn’t disappear while everyone else was sitting for dinner. “Working all night?” Nick nodded and Michael raised his glass in salute. “I’ll be back.”

Michael made his way obediently to the single people’s table, sitting in the only open seat, next to a girl he surprisingly didn’t recognize as one of Isobel’s high school friends, who smiled at him pleasantly when he sat down. It turned out he’d been a little premature in leaving the bar, since they weren’t officially getting food until they’d sat captivity listening to terrible speeches. Michael was just glad they hadn’t let Max give one, since he’d probably spend the whole thing lecturing them about safe sex and responsible drinking and how best to file their taxes as a married couple.

“Don’t you just love weddings?” the girl next to him stage-whispered, and it took Michael a moment to realize she was talking to him. 

She looked weepy, and although at second glance she was a very attractive girl—long, black hair and an appealingly low-cut dress—he had no desire to get into an argument about how wonderful weddings were. “Yeah, weddings are…great.” Michael complimented himself on his restraint and took a big drink from his glass of bourbon. 

“Just like, you never know, right? The next person you meet could be the one.” 

Michael had an acidic response on his tongue before he glanced back at her and noted the appraisingly way she was looking at him. He smiled instead—maybe he didn’t hate everything about weddings.

It went downhill from there, though. 

Michael kept trying to catch a moment when Isobel was alone, to give her his congratulations, but she was always surrounded by her parents, or her bridesmaids, and he couldn’t throw himself to the wolves like that. Plus, once dinner finished and everyone suddenly seemed to loosen up, Nick the bartender was too busy to sneak away, and the girl at Michael’s table was too busy dancing with some of the other single table girls to give him the time of day, although she did keep sneaking him glances. Michael, meanwhile, had lost count of how many drinks he’d had, and was starting to wonder if he really needed to stay the entire time in order for Isobel to recognize how much of an effort he’d put in. 

After an especially annoying song choice by the mediocre band she’d hired, during which Michael was practically pushed out of Isobel’s path by an especially frantic aunt or something, Michael sighed and decided he needed some air. 

There was almost no one out on the little patio, the sun having long set, and the air grown colder. Michael sat on one of the benches—only minimally better than a pew—and tilted his head back, staring up at the stars while his glass sweat onto his fingers. This was better—quieter—and his mind started straying back to his own fantasy wedding, which meant he was thinking about things he really, really shouldn’t be, those specific eyes and lips and rings on fingers and—

“There you are.”

Michael spun around to see Isobel coming out through the door, on her own, holding up her skirt and smiling at him like she’d actually been looking. 

“Thought you might’ve left,” she said, sitting on the bench beside him. 

Michael shook his head, smiling because she was smiling. “And miss the bouquet throw? Never.”

“It’s a toss, not a throw,” she said, wincing a little, “and you did miss it.” 

“Damn, and I was prepared to cheat and everything.” 

Isobel laughed, knocking their shoulders together. “I’m glad you came.” 

“Of course I came, I wouldn’t miss your wedding, Iz.” 

She beamed at him, then took his glass and took a drink from it. “So why are you sitting outside all by yourself?” 

Michael took his glass back. He wasn’t sure how to tell Isobel that as much as he wanted to be here to support her, sitting in that room watching her with other people, her family, her friends, people who could be happy for her in the right way, with the right amount of real joy—something about that just made Michael feel wrong, and lonely, and the rawness of it all made him feel like he couldn’t quite breathe. He didn’t know how to tell her that he would have wanted a seat saved in the chapel, that he wouldn’t ever have skipped out on this, and that he knew she hadn’t saved him a seat because she thought he might not show, and he hated that. He didn’t know how to say that he was still on the outside, and sometimes it was just…a lot. 

He was saved the difficulty by the door swinging open loudly, letting some of the conversation and the music filter out into the night. And, of course, it was Max holding open the door, peering out at them uncertainly. 

“Hey, Iz, mom’s looking for you, something about a family photo?”

Michael nodded bitterly, turning away from them. Of course she was. More family photos, and Michael could just continue to stand on the sidelines and watch them all be a happy family without him. 

“Seriously? Come sit down before she sees me,” Isobel said, and Michael looked back at her sharply. “Come on, you have to listen to me, I am the bride.” She raised her eyebrows in challenge and Max gave in immediately, closing the door quietly behind him. Isobel rolled her eyes and pushed Michael sideways on the bench, making room for Max on the other side of her. 

“Family photos are important,” Max said, ever the good son, “you’re going to want them someday.”

Isobel snorted. “Oh, come off it. We have like a thousand photos with mom and dad from today and I’m talking to Michael.” Max shrugged, looking uncomfortable, but sat down dutifully on the bench next to her when she patted it. “Besides,” she said, wrapping one arm around Max’s shoulders and putting the other on Michael’s arm, “ **we** **_are_ ** **a family** , and I don’t have any pictures of the three of us from today yet.”

Michael swallowed, turning back towards his glass in order to avoid looking at all affected by the sentiment. Most of the time, he thought he was annoyed by being tied down to them, but after spending the entire day watching from outside of the inner circle, and after more than a few drinks, he could admit that he wanted that—he wanted to be part of their little family, he wanted to belong somewhere. He wanted a photo with Isobel beaming in her white dress and Max looking less like James Bond in his tux than he thought and himself, wearing a tie and feeling happier for Isobel than he would ever let her know. Tomorrow he’d be annoyed, and worried, and want to be alone, but for now, he wanted to sit facing the desert, just the three of them. 

Max nodded, although he looked very skeptical. “Want me to go get the photographer?”

“Nah, mom is attached to him like a magnet. You have your phone?”

Max nodded again, looking no less skeptical even as he dutifully took out his phone. “You really just want a selfie of the three of us?”

“Yes.” Isobel said it like it was a given. “Because you’re right, I will want to look back on this, on account of I look fucking great, and—”

“And I’m wearing a tie,” Michael cut in.

Isobel spread her hands demonstrably as she echoed him, “and Michael is wearing a tie.”

Max smiled, although he was clearly trying not to, and held up his phone. “Okay, fine, everyone smile.” 

The flash was blinding, but Michael was smiling. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi to me on tumblr: [my RNM sideblog](https://ineverlookavvay.tumblr.com) / [my main blog](https://margosfairyeye.tumblr.com)


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